


Poetry

by theOther_Will_Grayson



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Anna In The Tropics is great yall, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fights, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Making Up, Shitty fanfiction based off of classic theatrical literature, Why did I start thinking of a fandom I'm barely a part of while watching this amazing play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:20:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24160474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theOther_Will_Grayson/pseuds/theOther_Will_Grayson
Summary: The fights were familiar, but it all comes to a head one night, and somehow the spat ends differently.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 16





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write (or read) for this show, but for some reason a scene from the play Anna In The Tropics reminded me of these characters and I thought it could have ended differently. So in a lot of ways this is fanfiction for Anna In The Tropics. Damn.

The door of 221B clicked shut, but it may as well have slammed. John set his keys on the table, hung his coat up on the rack, toed off his shoes. He took his time, in absolutely no rush to throw the first punch in a match that he knew was inevitable. He could feel the other presence in the room, though he didn’t say anything. Sherlock undoubtedly wanted to make a bit of an entrance.

Right on cue, the lamp clicked on. “Its nearly half twelve.” In his robe, Sherlock looked like a distressed housewife as he rose from the couch, his hands tucked under his armpits in an uncharacteristic lack of poise, the yellow light of the lamp casting ugly shadows across his features.

“Past my bedtime, then?”

Sherlock’s jaw set, a subtle tell that he was not happy losing the first round of the fight. “You could have texted. I just wanted to know if you were safe.”

Guilt tactics. John wanted to laugh. “You’re not the only person on Earth who can keep me safe, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Is that what she does? Nurse Mary Mortsan keeps you  _ safe _ ?”

He spoke her name with such poised disdain. John couldn’t hold back a sharp inhale, his eyes darkening in anger. “You have stooped low, Sherlock Holmes. I can’t believe —” he stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what? I can believe it. I knew you were petty, Sherlock, but if you’re petty enough to  _ stalk her _ to find out her full name and where she works, probably where she lives, now that I think about it, that’s not my problem.”

“You didn’t answer the question John.” Sherlock’s smooth voice was cool as a cucumber as he no doubt began to sense he had the upper hand.

“Oh, for —” God damn it, he just wanted to go to bed. “No she doesn’t bloody keep me safe, Sherlock. She wouldn’t jump in front of a bullet for me, but the funny thing is, she doesn’t need to because she never puts me in danger on purpose!”

And there it was. They were settling into old arguments like worn couch cushions. They’d once had that familiarity with love.

Sherlock stepped around the couch, pointing an accusatory finger into John’s chest. “You chose this, John. I gave you a chance to leave this life, but you didn’t take it. You know why? Because you  _ need me.” _

The textbook gaslighting was almost pathetic. “I signed up for  _ adventure _ , Sherlock,” John said. “Being used as bait against my will, the manipulation, the abandonment —”

“Oh,  _ please _ .”

John didn’t even care about the interruption anymore. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” He didn’t need this. He didn’t need to be spat at and insulted and he certainly didn’t need to take it. He could be the bigger man. But as he turned and started up the stairs, John could practically hear the gun cocking as Sherlock chambered the rounds he had been readying all night.

“Well, you  _ are _ seeing her quite a lot. That’s three times this week.”

John whirled. “ _ You _ don't get to decide that. Sherlock, I am sick of being treated like an evil cheating villain! I am not a case that you can flamboyantly solve with a swirl of your jacket. You don’t get to tell me when I get to see her, or how often, or how long because Victor was  _ first _ .” 

Sherlock flapped a hand, turning away and for the first time breaking the intense stare he had fixed on John. “Oh, don't be childish —”

“Shut up,” John spat. The curse was nasty, but familiar in arguments with Sherlock. “I could be with her twenty-four-seven and you wouldn’t have the grounds to say  _ shit _ because you. Cheated. First.” 

Sherlock paused, his head half turned. To John’s surprise, he blinked, temporarily stunned. With an inhale and a shake of his head, he broke the freeze, fixing his gaze on John. He spoke his next words as calmly and matter-of-factly as John had ever seen him. “Well, of course I wouldn’t,” he said. “Because if you spent every minute with her, we wouldn’t even be together.”

John felt the breath leave his body as he processed the words and realized the truth in them. He forgot all about the damn stairs and pushed past Sherlock, who was still frozen. He grabbed a spot of couch, not his chair, and held his head in his hands. The whole fight had blown up so quickly, like a land mine planted just across the threshold of the flat. He almost wished he hadn’t come home.

“Is that what you want, John?” He had never heard Sherlock sound so unsure of himself, so wounded and timid.

“Of course it’s not what I want, Sherlock,” John said, finally meeting his gaze. “I never wanted any of this.”

He watched the insecurity drain instantly from Sherlock’s face, replaced with that ugly sneer that John hated so much, punctuated by a derisive snort. “Could have fooled me.” Sherlock folded his arms. “You told me in no uncertain terms that you were taking a lover.” 

John wanted so badly to throw another punch, to say,  _ Well, at least I told you _ . Instead he just tugged at his hair, the pain grounding him momentarily and keeping the nasty words at bay. He was tired of fighting. The sooner all this was over, the better. He just wanted to go to bed. Maybe he would wake up and realize it had all been a terrible nightmare. Perhaps he would roll over and find that Sherlock was in his arms, drooling in that lack of poise John had always found so amusing, and they were happy, and they had never been unhappy and they could get up and continue their day and keep being happy. But those days were behind them. Even if they somehow managed to precariously glue together the shattered bits of their relationship, it would never be exactly as it was. You can’t fix a broken window. You’ll still see the cracks.

“What I wanted was commitment, Sherlock.” His own voice dragged him back into reality. “I wanted commitment from both of us, not this bickering and revenge nonsense.” He paused, searching Sherlock’s face for remorse, for any regret for the turn things had taken. Of course, he found none, only the angry sparks of petulant jealousy. “Right,” he sighed. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” Perhaps this one would stick. He heaved himself up from the couch, the action taking more effort than he expected, as if he had aged ten years sitting on that couch. 

Just as he was so often capable of doing, Sherlock stopped him short with a single question: “What’s she like?”

John paused, searching for the answer, recognizing the trap for what it was. “She’s nice.”

“ _ Nice? _ ”

“Normal, Sherlock. She’s normal.”

Silence, except for the sound of the gears whirring in Sherlock’s head. Then, “She boosts your ego.”

“Oh, come on-”

“What, does she fawn over your great adventures?” John turned and Sherlock was stalking toward him, that sneer dirtying his face again, masking the lovely features he used to love so much. “Does she tell all her friends that she’s fucking  _ John Watson _ , the  _ doctor _ , the  _ soldier? _ ”

John’s jaw clenched, his fists balling. “You shut your mouth, Sherlock Holmes. There is a line, and you’d better make damn sure you don’t cross it.”

Sherlock dismissed the warning with nothing more than a scoff. “Does she tell you how amazing it is that you save lives when she’s laying naked in her lovely soft sheets?”

“Shut. Up.”

Sherlock was inches away, scathing and sneering as he spat, “Does she lavish you with praises? Ask about your war stories? Does she stroke your ego while she’s stroking your —”

“And what have I been doing all these years?” 

Silence radiated like a shock wave. “Christ, Sherlock, you bloody hypocrite!” John ran his fingers through his hair, resisting the temptation to grip it and pull. “The only reason you keep me around anymore is so I can trail around behind you calling you brilliant. Admit it, all you want is someone to stare at you wide eyed as you explain all the brilliant things you’ve done without me. And what thanks have I gotten? Besides being used as bait or an experiment, a few quick fucks, and the hope that someday, somewhere in the future, you  _ might _ look at me,  _ might  _ lie and tell me you love me.”

Sherlock stared at him, and John couldn’t tell a lick if he was getting through to him, but he honestly didn’t care.

“So yes, she strokes my ego. She asks me about my life like she’s actually interested. She wants to hear my stories and she tells me I’m amazing and she has sex with me like she wants to because she things I’m attractive. She does all the things I did for you for years, except this time, for the first time since that bloody pink suitcase, it’s a two way street.”

Somewhere deep inside, there was an angry fire fueling this rant, but John could barely feel its heat anymore. He just couldn’t find the energy to be angry anymore. He’d been angry for years, and it was exhausting. John found himself sitting on the stairs, face in his hands, ready to fall asleep right then and there.

“John.”

He didn’t move as Sherlock sat beside him.

“John, look at me.”

And John’s tired eyes met Sherlock’s intense stare. So many weeks of darting gazes and cold shoulders vaporized like bonfire smoke — it seemed to dissipate, and yet John could almost taste it with every breath. Through the haze, John felt a spark. That old spark from so long ago, just the barest trace of the electricity that had once been there. And John wanted so desperately to give in to it, the residue of his ages old desire still perfectly capable of reacting to Sherlock’s proximity, his voice, his cologne, his touch.

Sherlock gently lifted John’s chin. “You’re amazing,” he said, and kissed him.

For a split second, John forgot the fight. He forgot Mary, and Victor, and wounded pride, and just kissed back. Sherlock’s lips were familiar, their chemistry practically muscle memory. Like riding a bike, they were kissing just like they used to. When was the last time they had  _ kissed _ ?

It was a moment of bliss. A bliss that John couldn’t accept, for he saw through its veneer.

“Sherlock, don’t,” he managed through the breathlessness, placing a hand on Sherlock’s chest and pulling away. Lips chased his, but John held his ground. “ _ Don’t. _ ”

Sherlock looked exactly like he always did when someone proved his hunch wrong.  _ Didn’t work, must gather more data _ . Only this time, he looked more...wounded.

“Just…” John couldn’t hold his gaze any more. “You can’t fix this with one kiss.”

“No, but I can start. John,” he pleaded. “Let me at least try.”

John was clawing at the edge of the cliff, barely hanging on, resisting getting sucked in by that voice, those eyes.

“What’s it like? With her.”

John’s fingers were in his hair, and he wanted to pull so badly. “Sherlock, don’t do this.”

“Do what? I want to know.”

“No, you…” He sighed. “She’s...I don’t know. She’s…” The word was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back, not wanting to rub salt in the wound. 

“She’s what?”

He let the word go, and it snapped like a rubber band. “Warm.”

“Is that all?” Sherlock was trying to cover his disdain, but it soaked through.

“The rest...It’s poetry. You’d hate to hear it.”

Silence. He could feel Sherlock considering this, though doing nothing to deny it. John’s words hung in the air between them with no end to the frigidity they brought. They both just sat on the steps, staring forward, pondering the last five minutes, the last five years.

And John knew intrinsically that what he had said, though meant to neutralize, had stung more than any insults they had heard so far. John was a writer at heart, and despite the scathing remarks he made about the blog, Sherlock read every page, drinking up every word of John’s poetry, poetry about him. And when that wasn’t enough, he would fish for it, prancing around, doing anything he deemed impressive enough to earn a muttered, “Brilliant,” from John.

And somehow, all that had devolved into this. Two lovers, starving for one another’s approval, too stuck in their own pride to give it.

Sherlock had had enough. He broke the icy stillness. Yes, he, Sherlock Holmes, swallowed his pride long enough to turn, place his hand on his lover’s cheek and say, “Show me.”

“What?”

“The poetry,” he said. “Show me.”

And then the two lovers connected once more, with a warmth they hadn’t felt from one another in longer than they could trace. It was the soaring high after a month clean. It was the warmth of a hot tea waiting in the kitchen in December. For the first time in forever, they  _ wanted  _ each other like the desert wants water. Who was the sand and who was the rain? As their bodies tangled, it all became mud anyways. And the metaphors popping into John’s head were becoming muddled as well. How to sum up?

In short, it was poetry.


End file.
